


monsoon rising

by chryos



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Iwaizumi Hajime, Daimyo/Lord Oikawa, Edo Period, Established Relationship, Experimental Style, Hot Springs & Onsen, Kashin/General Iwaizumi, M/M, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Rimming, Unprotected Sex, anyway i have a reserved seat in hell for this, because i am self-indulgent, yes you guess it this is just hot springs bath sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24655219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chryos/pseuds/chryos
Summary: The white lotus ripples the pond surface and bares its naked body towards the cloudless sky. Tooru coaxes this bloom, and Hajime unravels so: unabashed, divine, fearless.The Iwaizumi clan has continued to dutifully serve the Oikawa family’s rule over Sendai for generations. General Hajime lives by this, sworn by the blade over his heart that bleeds the purest of loyalty. Young Lord Tooru only lives to disprove such redundancies.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 19
Kudos: 260





	monsoon rising

**Author's Note:**

> i say this is just a pwp but there are like three flashbacks (which are just as plotless tbh) embedded in this story because i am unnecessarily extra. that's all there is to it.
> 
> also, although this is a historical au, i would still like to note this is by no means historically accurate. other than that, please enjoy!

The splendid silver face on the edge of the sky: an all-seeing eye, Hajime feels oddly exposed under the moonlight. The misting water is as kind and pleasant as the embrace of a hearth. He sinks into the bath even further, back against the smooth rock of the hot springs. Cherry blossom and willow trees, humming cicadas, and sweet chrysanthemums gleaming precariously in the luminous sight. Between the scatter of stars littered in the darkness, it is the Moon herself that remains the most enchanting. In turn, Hajime basks under the omniscience of it: _The moon glows the same—_

“— _It is the drifting cloud forms, make it seem to change._ ” Tooru’s voice pierces through the crickets and stuttering branches and thick breeze, “Iwa-chan, your taste in poetry is quite dull nowadays.”

Standing by the edge of the springs bath, silk robes are loosely tied around his waist. His topknot is undone, locks spilling past his ivory neck. Yet, in what would seem as unbecoming attire, Tooru appears regal as ever. He relishes in Hajime’s startle: “Did I keep you waiting too long?”

“What—?” Hajime says as the lord dips his toes, then foot, then leg in steady submersion. The silk robe remains on him, canting silently into the water. Even in the dim light, the lanterns cast to the side illuminate Tooru’s body with effortless flatter. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What do you think?” Tooru lets his lower half soak, steam rising to his torso. “I am enjoying my bath.”

Hajime grits his teeth. “You know what I mean. You should not be out here.” This would be the guest bathhouse of the manor, on the opposite wing of the lord’s residence. Nowhere for the lord himself to be.

“Why so?” Tooru cocks his head, teasing, “In case it has slipped your mind, I do own the Oikawa estate now. As well as this guest _onsen_ . If anything, it is _you_ invading my private bath, General Iwaizumi.”

“But if someone were to see—”

“See what?” The lord leans forward, and his robe slips down his shoulders. The crevice of his collarbone, moonlight-dipped. “Enlighten me.”

Hajime scowls, pushing the other away. “It is dangerous to be outside at this time. What if someone attacks you?”

“That is why I have Iwa-chan to protect me, of course!” Tooru’s eyes fix on Hajime’s face, before smoothing the lines of his forehead in a swift movement of his thumb. “You know better than I that we are heavily guarded. Worried about me?”

“As if. You are nothing but a nuisance.”

“You have gone quite lenient on me, I’d say.”

“Not lenient,” Hajime closes his eyes, “just tired.”

The sound of cicadas continues to thrum, bristling amongst the trees. Tooru inches closer to him. He smells like bamboo oil and ripe melons and a tinge of firewood. It is the fragrance of something that sends tremors into one’s soul as it attracts such. The general takes it in all the same, this familiar scent of Oikawa Tooru. 

A raging warmth grazes Hajime’s stomach beneath the water.

“What are you doing?” His voice manages sharpness despite himself; Tooru’s palm feels stronger than the heat of the hot springs. 

“You said you were tired,” the young lord pouts, bottom lip an alluring pink, “and I am merely helping.”

“Oikawa—” Tooru coyly flutters his eyelashes. Hajime sighs, worming away from the touch, “There is no need, my lord.”

“Stubborn as always, Iwa-chan,” and he nuzzles his face into Hajime’s neck, pressing the rest of his body to the general’s side like sweet rice cakes melting, “Is it that you wish for me to beg?”

Hajime coughs. The water between them splashes and wet skin collides with a sputter. Tooru’s hands trail further down, yet Hajime makes no move. As if he is paralyzed, but not by poison. It is something much worse, perhaps. He bends towards Tooru’s embrace as moth to flame—resistance or not, the result comes as it always does. 

“I want to take care of you.”

“You cannot,” Hajime snaps. He struggles against Tooru’s grip before he can stand. It is difficult to believe for all the young lord spends his days frolicking in teahouses and calligraphy lessons, he is stronger than what meets the eye. “Let me go. You’re being improper for a lord! And your duties have nothing to do with my wellbeing.”

Feigning, Tooru touches his heart with a frown. “You are too cruel, Iwa-chan!” 

Then, his singing lilt winds low, snaking the words around Hajime’s neck like a collar. “You do not fool me, either. It was in your gaze all night and it is in your gaze now.”

Blood storms from Hajime’s chest to the tip of his ears, flushing brilliantly. Tooru can be frivolous and unsolicited at times, but he is not to be taken for a dimwit. Of course he has caught Hajime’s stares throughout supper: starved and blazed and ardent. Hajime has never been a good liar with his eyes.

Tooru does not say anything. His hands do not lower, tracing at Hajime’s hipbone in spirals, slow and amiable. He is waiting for an answer, the final command.

“Someone might see,” Hajime says again. _Are you sure_?

Tooru smiles against the navy night. “Then we will not get caught.” 

_Of course. It is with you, I am always sure._

Tooru tastes like his cigar pipe and Portuguese sponge cake, all remnants of dinner from earlier. They had dined in the west wing of his manor, tatami mats spread and dark oak tables seated. The turquoise drapes weaved with swirling white clouds of cotton. Fine china vases nursing hyacinths and peonies, and a dozen servants lined up soldierly in the corners of the room, impeccably trained to be invisible. 

Tooru had gestured for the servants to clean their last course from the table and turned to Hajime. “Would you like dessert? One of my father’s visitors brought sweets from the West with him, although it is quite sugary—” to which he made a face, albeit elegance kept— “and we have the _manju_ from Osaka you like, as well.”

The cake from Portugal was exceptionally sweet. Its grainy texture is still left in the side of Hajime’s mouth, although it seems to fare better from Tooru’s tongue. Tangy citrus and fresh milk, lips roaming from one end to the other. Until they forget where the honey sliding between their mouths started in the very first place.

Tooru pulls his waist inward, upper bodies touching, merging. Hajime tugs on Tooru’s robe, and it comes undone in the water. The sounds of them, rippling:

First is the sound of date-red silk slipping through his fingers. It is permeable, loving, powerless. There are gold dragons and white cranes that flit through them as easily as the currents from the village stream he used to play in. He is eight years old, trousers rolled up mid-thigh and the face of the sun beating mercilessly on his ebony locks. It is a war of a thick-aired summer and catching koi, whose fervent bodies writhe out of his grasp as quickly as they enter. 

The handmaidens might still be looking for him, but their efforts are in vain. Eventually, Hajime will return to the manor on his own, robes drenched lukewarm and reeking of wet earth and rotten plums. 

Hajime is eight years old and the hero of the river. He is eight years old when on the other end of the clearing emerges the boy with pale skin and clever eyes. He is smaller than Hajime, his hands do not have the same cuts and callous as Hajime’s do, and there is a wonder to his features that even the hero of the river cannot begin to fathom. 

“Hello,” Hajime says, the fish in his hands long forgotten. It flails back into the stream. He only greets so politely as his mother taught him to, and bows. The other boy does not seem to return the same instance.

Instead, the child lifts his chin precisely. “You,” he points from the shrubbery. “What are you doing in _my_ river?”

“This is no one’s river,” says Hajime, frowning. The water runs past his ankles freely in agreement. 

The boy huffs, incredulous, “My family owns this river, and you have trespassed. Give me your name or you shall be punished!”

The demanding tone is startling, coming from someone his age. Along with that, Hajime has never heard of a family that owns rivers. He hears his father and uncle frequently talking about land, but water has never come up in such conversations. _The river has no owner_ , he wants to say again. 

“Iwaizumi Hajime,” he replies instead, and bows respectfully once more, as his father said one should do when announcing their family name. His hair is wet and clings to his forehead, but he makes no move to fix it. “I am the son of General Iwaizumi.”

“I, Iwa… I-Iwazu…”

“It is alright. The other kids call me Iwa, sometimes,” Hajime wads in the water, looking for his next prey, “You can call me that, too.”

The boy does not say anything for a moment. He is thinking, worrying his bottom lip and nimble fingers working on the twig he had picked up from the ground. Unlike Hajime’s, his robes are a light blue dye, meticulously embroidered, although mud sticks to the ends of them. Hajime wonders if he has been playing by himself, too.

“Iwa-chan!” The boy finally declares, triumphant. He wears the face of someone who has struck gold. “I shall call you Iwa-chan.”

Hajime’s mouth twists, visibly displeased: “That sounds awful!”

“Well, all the better!” The other boy laughs, twirling the stick in his hand. The afternoon sun does not seem to batter him; the light rests softly on the crown of his head, gleaming maroon. “So, Iwa-chan, what are you doing?”

_Oh._ He has nearly forgotten about the koi weaving between his legs. “Catching fish.”

The other boy is momentarily taken. “...Fish?” Hajime nods. Curious, brown eyes light up mischievously. “But it seems like you have not caught any?”

His cheeks blister with heat. “That is not—!” He sputters— “I catch them, and I let them go!”

“Of course, Iwa-chan,” the boy agrees, but the amused look does not subside from his face. “You know, my father has many fishing poles, but they are never used. I could spare you one.”

“But that would spoil the fun!” 

“What fun?” The heat is cruel, the current ever-changing, and the cloth sticks unbearably to your skin. Yet, Hajime beams, irrepressible. It is nothing the young boy in front of him has ever seen before. 

“Come down, and I will show you.”

Hajime is eight years old and meets Oikawa Tooru for the first time. Then, the water of the stream becomes a little warmer, two boys caught between glistening rocks and the flutes singing far away and the croaking frogs flinging from their red palms. Their cries of joy that ring one after the other, dizzying with glee. When their bodies are worn out, their clothes are strewn to the side to dry under the sun, and they rest under the shade of the magnolia trees. They are the heroes of the river, an unyielding force, and several years later it remains as so. 

Now, Tooru’s laugh runs deep into his back, heavy and sultry and devoid of the sweet giggles of their childhood innocence. They are men, no more mere boys; they are shaped by politics and swords, by lust and gold. Somewhere along the journey Tooru has grown, surpassing even Hajime (much to the general’s chagrin). Shoulders broadened, limbs stretched, and the tiny hairs running below the waist that mustered from adolescence. Hajime has turned out such too, except where Tooru is graceful and lithe, he is bulky and taut. _A body fit for a warrior,_ his father has often said. Then if he is a warrior, Hajime thinks, it is only right that Tooru’s body is sculpted for a ruler. 

“Don’t tell me your mind has wandered off now, Iwa-chan.” Tooru slurs his name expertly, worn of habit, and slides his hand over Hajime’s navel. “What could you possibly be thinking about besides me?”

“Don’t be full of yourself,” Hajime grunts under the touch. His mind begins to haze when Tooru nips at the base of his neck: “And besides…”

“Besides?”

“When we first met,” Hajime watches Tooru’s face soften, “I was thinking of that time.”

“Hmm, how sweet.” Tooru licks one, two times at his Adam’s apple, smiling at the shudder Hajime emits. Then, “You were so incompetent as a child.”

“And you were a brat,” says Hajime, although it is more of an exhale. Tooru has always given him an earful for not recognizing him as a member of the Oikawa family all those years ago. “Who knew a child like you would be a future lord?”

“Who knew a child like you would be said lord’s guard?” 

“I act more of a mother than a guard, I can assure you.”

Tooru’s laugh is breathy, intoxicating. He is perched above Hajime now, finding a space between his thighs. He sighs into the general’s mouth, “Then allow me to tend to you instead, Iwa-chan.”

This time, Hajime has no qualms. Tooru is everywhere: fingers brushing over his erect nipples, scalding hot, naked bottom wedged between his legs. His tongue slides deeper into Hajime’s throat, who relaxes with the feeling. It is far from a new experience, yet each time he cannot help but feel the same desire sparking in his stomach like the very first. Something about his mouth drives Hajime wild, desperate, and allows him to lose himself too easily.

Tooru finally gets to his length, stroking once, twice. Hajime shivers under the touch: the sensation is different in the water, painfully slow as it is satisfyingly hazy. He groans through the kiss and bucks his hips instinctively, dragging his cock through Tooru’s hold. The blood in his body is flowering red across his skin. _Hot_ , Hajime hisses against Tooru’s lips. _Too hot_ . And then, _More. Give me more._

Tooru releases his grip. Hajime opens his eyes, throat rasping, “Oikawa—?”

“Up,” the lord says. He makes a motion of lifting Hajime out of the water and onto the ledge of the springs, murmuring, “I want to see you.”

Hajime feels the night enveloping him, stone cool under his bottom and body dripping wet. Yet, he is fully erect now, courtesy of Tooru’s hand. He sits, length vulnerably hard against his stomach and legs spread wide in the open. It makes him uneasy, with the exposure. The lanterns beside him, as if chanting, _Ah, someone might see—_

“Pretty,” Tooru murmurs, pulling up closer to Hajime. His hand encircles the girth of the other man’s erection, and when Hajime nearly lets out a groan, he looks a little too pleased. “Iwa-chan, your face is all red! How needy.”

“You—” Tooru squeezes the base of his cock, cutting Hajime short of his words. 

“What was that, Iwa-chan?”

_Bastard_. Hajime hides his face under his forearm, barely stifling a moan. Tooru’s hands are soft and quick on his length, flicking his grasp up and down. The trembling sensation races through him, but Hajime refuses to let out a single noise. 

“Why so tense, General?” Tooru hums sickeningly sweet. Hajime is stiffer than usual, vulnerable in the light of the moon. As if he knows what the general is thinking, Tooru looks him in the eye: “No need to be quiet.”

Hajime breaks off the stare, muttering, “Someone will hear us.”

“I will not let them,” Tooru says. He presses his face against Hajime’s inner thigh, nipping at the flesh lovingly, gently. Hajime’s lips part into a silent gasp, and Tooru’s eyes darken, “I am the only one. No one else is allowed to have you like this.”

_No one is allowed to have you like this_. Hajime feels his skin prickle upon the sentence, heart struck with an inexplicable drive. Tooru has always had a way with words, and although he is no stranger to it, hearing them unwinds Hajime gradually, assuringly. He hates how wonderful it feels to let go.

“...Brat.” 

Tooru’s smile flickers amongst the lanterns, “My Iwa-chan, always so eloquent.”

Hajime has forgotten how warm Tooru’s mouth is. Any finite thought seems to fade from his head, caught in the uproar of lips stained with sugar and sour cherries. The young lord’s tongue marks its territory on Hajime’s length, swirling at the very tip of his cock. Tooru takes him in eagerly, compliantly. He is made for this, the base of his mouth tickling Hajime sweetly, and _God_ , the moan that rips from Tooru’s throat has Hajime quivering as the wings of a butterfly, soaring in the sweltering breeze.

He releases a groan, and Tooru follows with another satisfied hum around his length, his hands on both of the general’s broad thighs tightening with greed. Naturally, Hajime finds himself threading his hands through the other man’s hair. Tooru moans in response, and the general closes his fingers around the smooth strands fervently, burying further into the lord’s mouth. His cheeks hollow around Hajime’s cock, pleased with the size. 

Under Tooru’s mouth, Hajime crumbles seamlessly. He is deep, he is devoured, and he is on the edge of the world. 

“Ah, _ah,_ ” Hajime falters, his stomach on fire, “Oika— _ah_!”

Ribbons come undone, spurting white over Tooru’s lips like a curtain fall. There are stars behind Hajime’s lids, and waves of pleasure ride one after the other from head to toe until it has him shuddering under Tooru’s touch. His body is screaming, delight coursing through it, and Hajime falls back onto the young lord for another open-mouthed kiss. 

He circles his hands around the back of the other’s slim neck. Tooru tastes magnetic and bittersweet.

“God,” Tooru rasps, saliva dripping down his chin. Even then, he appears utterly beautiful. “Look at you, Hajime.”

The tips of his ears are hot. He exhales, albeit shakily, still coming down from the high.

“Sensitive, hm?” Tooru licks the last of cum from his cock, earning another shiver from the general. “You must have missed me. It _has_ been a while~”

In such a state, Hajime can barely muster a scowl. He manages, despite. “Of course not,” his breath comes out harshly, skin burning when Tooru thumbs at his hipbone, “You were the eager one, bastard.”

“But Iwa-chan, you totally enjoyed it!” Tooru says this like it is all that matters. He wears a smug look upon seeing the blood rush to the other man’s face. Breath mists under Hajime’s jaw before catching him in another deep kiss. Tooru’s hands slide down to the general’s waist and clasp at both of his sides, the pressure hard enough to bruise. 

“Oikawa…”

“Turn around.” When Hajime gives him a stern look, Tooru only laughs. “At ease, soldier. I said I would take care of you, remember?”

Before Hajime can quip another retort, Tooru flips him over. His bare back is turned to the other man, moonlight cascading from his broad shoulders to the dip of his back. All for the lord to indulge in, like a painting stretched across the walls of a parlor. He is a performance, cultivated by the strokes of the slim fingers running over his body. Tooru touches with finesse and intensity and tenderness all at once. 

“Bend over for me,” he purrs, ghosting over the swell of Hajime’s cheeks. The feeling of Tooru spreading him apart is humiliating as it is arousing. The bottom of Hajime’s spine tingles, and then something wet presses against his rim. 

Hajime parts his lips in a barely audible groan. Tooru’s tongue is inside him, slithering into his inner walls, absolutely searing. He flicks in and out the rim almost artfully, suckling the tight muscle until Hajime’s thighs quiver from the pleasure. Times like these, Tooru is pure evil and he basks in it, watching the general keen instinctively. His body wants—no, _demands_ for more. Hole clenching and unclenching, a vulgar invite for Tooru’s tongue to invade deeper into Hajime, but even then the lord ignores him, rubbing saliva at his entrance in tease. 

“ _Oikawa_ ,” Hajime growls, burning with desperation. “Stop… no more of this play— _Ah!_ ”

Tooru pushes back into his hole, buried between Hajime’s legs. It is too good, almost holy, and Hajime feels the carnal fire igniting in the pit of his stomach. Under Tooru’s skillful tongue Hajime is writhing, leaking heavily with precum once again. He uncharacteristically lets out a mewl at the wet sensation, which seems to encourage the lord to shove his tongue even further down his heat. There is difficulty in keeping quiet, but Tooru ravishes the moans of Hajime as one savors the taste of luxury wine. He works his mouth into Hajime like a mission, a victory for each one of the general’s rare lust-filled noises.

“Oh, _fuck_!” He nearly cries, shaking with the blazing penetration. Hajime rocks his hips back as Tooru wraps his hands below his cheeks, fingernails riding crescents into the side of his thighs. It sends lightning all across his stomach, flashing hot and greedy. “Keep—keep going—”

His eyes are moist when Tooru pulls out, knees numb from holding his trembling weight. His length now curved flush against his abdomen, throbbing, and his swollen hole emptied of warmth. He aches with need: 

“Fuck, Oikawa, finish it!”

Tooru grabs his chin, eyes steel. Hajime gulps. This is a different side of Oikawa Tooru, radiating with dominance that the air around him crackles with it. His grip is unyielding, unforgiving, and Hajime staggers back around, half-skidding. His lower half sinks back into the hot springs. In turn, Tooru hoists his torso up between Hajime’s splayed thighs, compressing their bodies as violently as a fan flaps close, layer upon layer. He feels Tooru’s own erection graze his own and lets out a noise thick and guttural.

“How vulgar,” Tooru _tsks_ as Hajime’s back arches like a whine. His teeth rapture into the skin of his collarbone, lovebites clouding Hajime’s chest slowly but surely. “Such language coming from a general is not to be taken lightly. Do you want to be punished?”

“What happened to taking care of me?” Hajime bites back the moan from falling past his lips. He knows Tooru is only jesting, but the thought of it is oddly more appealing than he would think. Hajime frisks against the other man’s chest impatiently—

“At least finish what you have started.”

He means to say this as an afterthought, but it echoes through the air like a challenge. Tooru’s face collapses completely then, stripping away the silly light facade. The insignificant teasing, the foreplay, the careless musings—discarded like a mosquito flicked off of one’s shoulder. Hajime knows this face. This is the face that conquers men and villages with one strike. This is the face of a true lord. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Iwa-chan,” Tooru says, dragging his cock against Hajime’s leaking one. Moans spilling, the friction sends jolts all the way down his scorching body. “Did no one ever tell you patience is virtue?”

He does not let Hajime answer, when he parts the other man’s mouth open with his two slender fingers, delving under the slick tongue. 

“Suck,” he says, ignoring the general’s glower. “I think you have forgotten what it’s like to take orders from someone.”

Hajime meets Tooru’s gaze, blazing with defiance. The split-second feeling before the mountain tiger pounces onto its prey, hesitating _oh so_ slightly. Truth told, Tooru has always had the upper hand, albeit disguised under lazy taunts and frivolous behavior. But it could go without saying that once Tooru reveals his pure nature, the world would fall beneath his feet all too quickly. It is only Hajime who is allowed to retract such powers—a sign of trust—but in the end, the lord who controls them.

“Well?” 

Tooru is expecting, but he knows the lord will not wait any longer. The fingers pulse in his mouth impatiently. Hajime flushes with irritation, except— the temptations are stronger. The storm bellowing in his stomach, wetness trickling down his thighs. A beat of silence passes, and then—slowly, quietly, methodically, he takes them in. His tongue swirls among Tooru’s fingers, sucking. A kind of smile passes over Tooru’s face as one croons over a newborn: “You’re too good to me, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime resists the urge to oppose the man before him since only he is preoccupied. Tooru’s fingers caress the inside of his cheek, and Hajime works his tongue between them, generously coating the digits. Slick like honey, the saliva runs down the lord’s wrist. His hands taste like sea salt and sweet rice wine prodding into the back of his throat. This is the taste of summer festivals, and suddenly Hajime is falling apart all over again, all at once—emotions run wild and thundering from his gut, he is sixteen years old again:

A colorful night sustains the city of Sendai, streets dangling with lanterns and the strong scents of grilled fish wafting through the air. The ocean breeze swirling past the crowds of young men and women clamoring at the teahouse, spirits high and drunk on summer. Tooru dances in it all, the luminance of his elegant body and princely smile invigorating the people of the city as the sun breathes life upon its subjects of nature. 

Hajime is sixteen years old and the sword tied to the side of his waist reminds him so. His _katana_ is a gift from the coming-of-age ceremony, and although it is a swift and agile metal, it bears the weight of his name on the hilt. He is no longer the young boy with the wooden sword and catching crickets. He is sixteen years old and dreading the sight of his young master embarrassing himself. 

Tooru is sixteen years old and stumbling out of the teahouse, _eboshi_ cap falling lopsided from his head. He is chaos, revels in it as he spurs it. The white-painted ladies and face-flushed men rush after him with their chorus of goodbyes onto the street, and when he crashes into Hajime’s arms the latter feels a great irritation bloom from the pit of his stomach. Tooru is sixteen years old and reeks of sweat and liquor. 

“Iwa-chan~” The sound of his voice is ever bright and singing despite his drunken state. “Have you come to join the celebrations?”

“...Idiot,” Hajime mutters, although it is more to himself. Then, observing Tooru’s unkempt form, the boy sighs, “Your father wants you home. It is getting late.”

“It is already late!” Tooru lets out a whine, wringing out of his grip. Hajime does not let him go. “You will not make me go home. I have not finished my drinks, and I cannot simply waste such luxuries—! Ow!”

Hajime has him by the ear now, deep lines beginning to form on his forehead. “You will go whether you like it or not.”

“ _Iwa-chan_ …”

“Both of us will be punished, you know.”

“Nonsense,” Tooru slurs, giving up. He slumps against the other boy, “My father may be harsh but he is a fair man. And I would never let him, anyway.”

_Ah_ , Hajime blames the heat at his ears on the humid air. Handling the drunk young lord often proves to be much more excruciating than when sober. Seeing Tooru speak earnestly strikes an odd note in his chest, though he chooses not to dwell on the words. Hope is wonderful as it is terrifying in excess.

Another crowd of nobles and ladies bustle past them, frilly laughter and vibrant robes flashing across the street. Flaunting wealth on wine, taking mistresses for a night in a hotel, as these men do. 

Hajime tightens his clasp on Tooru’s arm and walks them toward the other side of the road. There, strapped to the wooden pole, Gojira bucks his head towards the two boys and lets out a resigned neigh.

“I know, we’re going home now,” Hajime grumbles, stroking the fur between its ears. He quickly unties the rope around the horse and tucks it back into his pouch. Tooru is surprisingly obedient, patting Gojira’s back with glee before allowing the other boy to lift him up. 

“Heavy,” Hajime complains, hoisting the young lord upon the saddle. Tooru squawks, arms flailing indignantly, “Am not! Iwa-chan, how rude!”

“You are insufferable,” the son of the general grumbles, jumping onto Gojira. The horse seems to whinny in agreement. “Now, don’t move too much.”

Tooru lets out an incoherent noise of contempt. Burying his face into Hajime’s back, the young lord wraps his arms around his waist. Hajime tugs on the leather, and pretends the fluttering in his chest is from the rush from the festivities they leave behind.

They arrive back at the Oikawa manor without much mishap, save for a stop in which Tooru lurched the last of his liquor into the bushes. When the maidens come outside to take him, the young lord stubbornly clings to Hajime instead, insisting the both of them into his room. They never end up crossing paths with Lord Oikawa along the way. 

“I _told_ you there was nothing to worry about,” Tooru flops onto his bedding when Hajime slides the doors of his room close behind them. The candles have already been lit since the evening, brightening his proud face. “There’s no trouble when you are with me, of course!”

“More like the contrary,” Hajime drily retorts, nose wrinkling. “Go bathe, Oikawa. The stench is unbearable.”

“No thank you,” Tooru says. Then, as an afterthought, he crawls off the blankets, peering at Hajime mischievously. “Unless you prefer to bathe me instead?”

Even intoxicated, Tooru is endlessly irking. “I am not your caretaker,” Hajime seethes. 

“Hmph.” Standing, the young lord begins to discard his robes, one by one. The clothes fall carelessly onto the tatami mat, and the sliver of Tooru’s skin unveils, enticing yet infuriating.

“Oikawa.” 

“Yes, Iwa-chan?”

“Why are you undressing?”

Tooru cocks his head, wide-eyed. “It is hot, I want to sleep. And these clothes are _terribly_ uncomfortable. Why, what did you have in mind, Iwa-chan? No need to be shy~”

Hajime’s throat is a fish caught in the net. He should be used to this, as it is no different from when they were boys swinging off sweet-gum trees and slushing in rivers. Except, it is different. Deeper voices and sharper lines running down their bodies and the manhood between their legs itching to be relieved are all different. Hajime is different—something that quells deep inside him that he’d never dare to tell.

“If you are off to bed, then, I shall take my leave,” Hajime says, turning. 

“Iwa-chan! Wait!” Tooru fumbles for the other’s wrist, holding him back. Utterly disheveled, yet something about his flushed neck and wet lips puts Hajime off his guard. “You are not staying?”

“Wha—Get off me, Oikawa. There is no reason to!”

“Of course there is, you have to stay with me!” Tooru says all too quickly, before his face falls with a tinge of regret. “But I cannot tell you the reason.”

Hajime hesitates, unable to shake the other boy off. “Why so?”

“You would be angered with me.”

Hajime stares. Him? Angry at Tooru? What could possibly be so secretive that the young lord would not even share it with him? He cannot recall a time where he has truly ever been furious with the other boy. What makes Tooru appear so vulnerable, so that he has no choice but to cave?

“I could never be angry at you,” Hajime finds himself saying. His heart is calm, set in honesty.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Then…” Tooru pauses, breaking into a soft child-like smile. Hajime nearly startles again. Rarely ever does Tooru smile so genuinely. “I am relieved. Will you stay now?”

Since the beginning, Hajime has lost. “I will. No need to cry about it, alright?”

“Between us, Iwa-chan is the one who always cries,” Tooru pouts, before stumbling back onto his bedding. Hajime, too exhausted to argue, strips off his _katana_ and outside robe. When he sits beside Tooru, arms hugging knees and knees tucked between shoulder blades, it feels like they are children once more. Silly games and wooden swords and picking fruit, all memories embedded with Tooru. 

Tooru’s side presses softly against Hajime as they lie down with fatigued weight. The scent of liquor is still coming strong from him. 

“Iwa-chan…” The young lord mumbles, blinking heavily. “I do not wish to anger you….”

This again? “I told you, there is nothing to be upset about. Now sleep, Oikawa.”

“But I am… I love you, Hajime.”

….What?

“I am in love with you… Please, I hope you are not mad...”

Hajime’s breath halts. Did he hear that right? His heart is a hummingbird, about to burst from its cage. It cannot… No, this cannot be. 

“You are drunk, Oikawa. You do not…” _You do not know what it is like, to love someone like you as I am me. You do not know the pain of keeping my distance. Have I ever truly walked by your side? How I have loved a boy I was always meant to falter behind? And you do not know how I cannot even dare to dream of this moment, yet_ — you have always tried to prove me wrong. 

Hajime’s voice quivers, “You will forget all the things you said in the morning.”

“My words are sober, I will… I will not…” Tooru insists, but his eyes slowly begin to droop. His chest rises up, down, steady and quiet. The trembling flutter of eyelashes, the strands of his hair tickling Hajime’s jaw. Lilies and _sake_ , he thinks. He wonders if this is how angels look when they are falling asleep: quaint and holy, breathtakingly tranquil. Like a chain seizing the soul beneath him, Hajime is compelled to Tooru’s side. 

“I love you, Tooru,” he says, after a long beat of silence. The words are thick in his throat. Barely a whisper, sound enough to tickle the ear. His heartbeat pounds rapidly in his ears, and Tooru twitches in his arms, half-asleep. 

“...Even if you are a brat,” he adds, because Tooru will forget it in the morning, and maybe, _maybe,_ Hajime will allow himself to be selfish this once. He always is, when it comes to Tooru.

And if he was selfish then, he is shamelessly indulgent now. Hajime’s hole is filled with Tooru’s slender fingers, shoving into his heat greedily. Seated on the smooth rock surface of the springs, the young lord faces Hajime above him, hair swept wildly and lips parting. The general sinks back onto Tooru’s hand, and he grasps onto the young lord’s shoulders as a coarse moan rips from his throat. Fingernails marking ivory skin until red moons appear, but Tooru does not seem to mind the pain. He is mesmerized by the sight of Hajime, utterly debauched by the mere tips of his fingers.

“Ah…” Knuckle-deep, yet Hajime’s body throbs with the need for another digit. “Oik-kawa…”

“I love when you look like that,” Tooru murmurs, the pad of his thumb grazing Hajime’s wet cheeks, “absolutely _ruined_ for me…”

He shudders as Tooru slides in a third finger, ring muscles tightening around them. The fingers seem to push him upward, until his legs are completely sprawled over the young lord’s lap. A fearless crow spreading wings wide in flight, thoroughly divulged. Hajime buries his face into Tooru’s neck and teeth the skin to muffle his sounds of pleasure, to which the young lord releases a deep, stuttering groan. 

His length is pressed between his stomach and Tooru’s own solid member. The friction is scathing, but even then Tooru makes no move to touch him. It is torture, and Hajime thinks that he intends to keep it so, all to drive the general into frenzy. 

Twitching, sighing, “Oikawa, come _on_ …”

The slop of their motions echoes throughout the springs obscenely. Hajime’s lewd noises trill into the air in falsetto, a lustful song that Tooru soaks in with pleasure. He captures the tip of Hajime’s ear with a sweet bite and drives his fingers into the general’s tight heat. 

“Relax,” Tooru huffs against Hajime, stretching him fiercely, “Allow me to prepare you well, will you?”

The lord forces back into the tight hole, and Hajime growls from the prick of the lean fingers working him open. It hurts, badly so, until his eyes are brimming with tears. 

“B-bastard,” he stammers, barely keeping sound. 

“You like it,” Hajime feels the lord smiling on his skin, that swine, “You love me.”

Rasping, “As if—”

Tooru wrings another wanton cry from Hajime before he can continue: “Iwa-chan is an awful liar.” 

His face burns, body tensing around his fingers. When Tooru has finally had his fill, fingertips skidding past Hajime’s swollen rim and the general left gaping, the blaring silence is thick with arousal. Want. Desperation. Hajime is empty, and Tooru gleans in the way the general ruts against him like instinct— 

“Oi _kawa_ ,” he grunts, hovering keenly over Tooru’s own hardened length. Sweat running down his pulsing thighs, slipping into the water. The lord thinks, distantly, about how far Hajime would last, if he would be allowed to push further than this. _Would you let me break you? Would you trust me?_ The general has never been one to beg, but his gaze—a dangerous, pooling flame—says it all. _Later,_ Tooru snakes his hands around the firm waist and captures the base of Hajime’s throat. Now, he has to keep a promise.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, “ _Hajime_. My Hajime.”

“Tooru,” Hajime sighs, and lets him in. 

First is pain. Raw, searing pain. There is nothing quick about this—unlike the flash of a hot blade or the sharp sting of a bee, taking in Tooru is a long, demanding process. The lord brimming at the tender mouth of his hole, pushing in so that Hajime is being torn apart, piece by piece. The throbbing member entering his body follows with a scorching pang. Split as a stone strikes shells apart, he draws in a sharp breath, seething.

“Does it hurt?” Tooru slows, quick to notice Hajime’s stiffness. The general can feel him twitch between his inner walls, and flushes. 

“No,” he clutches his grip around the lord’s shoulders, “Keep going.”

Like that, the lord is drawn back in. He pulls Hajime’s legs around his torso with measure, basking in the crude gasp that the smaller man makes when their hips collide. Tooru glides his tongue under the general’s jaw and laps at the wet skin. Hajime shudders. 

Finally, Tooru’s full thickness buries inside of him. It is unfathomable, the sensation that rides Hajime’s form limp with overwhelming pleasure. He cannot even let himself think for a moment. Mist steaming and clinging to his back as the lord thrusts into him once, twice. He groans, hazy with the feeling of the lord’s shaft splitting him open. There is clarity, there are dreams, and then there is Tooru.

“Ah, _please_ —” Hajime chokes, cut off by another snap of Tooru’s hips. He digs his nails into the fine muscles of the lord’s back, and bites into his shoulders to muffle another deep moan. As if the lord’s grasp is not bruising enough, Tooru tightens his left hand on Hajime’s waist. The other hand trails across the general’s chest, tickling his erect nipple. The man whines from his throat, teething further into Tooru’s skin.

“I want to hear you,” the lord hisses, driving his cock until it is skirting against his prostate. Hajime keens over, chest facing the sky, and gasps. “You make my favorite sounds, Hajime.”

“Ah...” The general wrings under Tooru’s roaming fingers. _God_. Nothing else, only Tooru. He is filled, tipping over the edge, caught in the landslide of lust and tenderness and ire. He craves as much as he loves as much as he resists. 

The lord pummels back into Hajime, sharper than before. The movements are slick, practiced, and the climb deeper and deeper with each round. The general moans his throat hoarse, straddling with appetite. There is no control left in Hajime’s body, who can barely sit atop Tooru on his own, and the brunette man seems to gloat in that. 

He brings his teeth over the pink taut nipples, tongue flicking. Forming thick, wet patterns across his breast, until Hajime trembles into oblivion. 

“Oh, Tooru!” he cries, again and again. _Tooru. Tooru Tooru Tooru—_ An endless prayer, kneeling before his lord. Broiling with the heat of their bodies frisking against one another. His neglected cock brushes Tooru’s own member, and he lets out another long whine from his stomach. 

“Hajime,” Tooru falters, nearly there. Fireworks bursting into ten thousand sparks, jolting through his veins like wildfire. “Ha, Hajime—”

“ _Please_ , Tooru I— Tooru! Ah, _ah!_ ”

The white lotus ripples the pond surface and bares its naked body towards the cloudless sky. Tooru coaxes this bloom, and Hajime unravels so: unabashed, divine, fearless. 

The general wails with Tooru’s final thrusts. Skin slapping, explosions running, bodies entwined. Hajime splatters white strands all over his abdomen, spilling ceaselessly. Tooru’s hot seed pumps into his channel until it spills from his hole. The bursting sensation from his stomach sends tremors through both of them. Tooru’s breaths come down heavy, and with the last shuddering bucks of his hips, he barely catches the other man collapsing onto him. 

“I got you,” Tooru hushes, soothing the quaking general with soft pecks, “I got you….”

“Ha….” Hajime whines, “ _Tooru_.”

“You were so good for me, Hajime, look at you…” 

The inner heat rises and falls as quickly as midday sun. Hajime is wrecked. He sobs quietly now, nestling against the lord’s broad chest as he pulls out. 

“…you…” 

“Hm?” Tooru sharpens into a grin. Proud sweat rolls down his face. “Was that a ‘thank you’, Iwa-chan?”

The general swears at him. 

Tooru’s laugh is rich and soiled with honey. His finger glides the lines running down his ribcage, and smiles. “Quite the filthy tongue, there.”

Hajime sighs shakily, unwilling to produce more snark. He is exhausted, his hole thoroughly worked and muscles aching. Instead, he returns Tooru’s flagrant affections with his own subtle touches: temples meeting, palm kneading the lord’s thigh. 

Tooru understands this language, of Hajime’s caress. It is enough to know that Hajime is satisfied. Yet, the lord reels with his own appetite. 

“Oh, I am not finished with you yet,” Tooru grabs the base of his cock, earning a sharp cry. The touch is all the more sensitive, when Hajime has barely recovered.

“Oikawa!” He hisses, clawing at Tooru’s back. “This is too much, please!”

He breaks into a moan when Tooru strokes without reluctance.

“I cannot help it,” the young lord purrs. “The face Iwa-chan makes is so pretty…”

The general reddens, profusely overwhelmed. Unable to keep up with his senses, Hajime shudders as Tooru runs his fingers down the veins of his length. It is too much, too much for him to resist in his jaded state. 

“Please…”

“One more time,” Tooru insists, and fondles tenderly at the head of Hajime’s length. It stands dark and flushed against his pale, slim fingers. “That look of yours right at this moment, can you blame me for the obsession?”

Hajime writhing above him is the first quivering breath of autumn. He swelters, wavers between two seasons, and wriggles past you before you realize what it was. He preens over the lord with tears racing down hot cheeks and Tooru thinks of fat warm raindrops pounding down ginkgo leaves. His flush lips fall loose and Tooru thinks of chorusing red robins swooping and ripe peaches crushed between their beaks. His chest rises, flourishes towards the sky, and Tooru thinks of peonies unfurling, swelling in the face of the sun. Hajime exists, intertwined to the root of Tooru’s own being, and Tooru worships as autumn wind breaks.

“Tooru, I need—”

“I know,” he murmurs, hardening beneath Hajime. He lazily ruts against the general, groaning with the friction. Yearning. “Ah, Hajime. You feel so good…”

Slowly, sweetly, they glide against one another. The hot springs cloud between them like a blanket, shushing their movements. Hajime arches his back, releasing a soft grunt as Tooru quickens. A knot forms in his core. Tooru is merciless.

“You love it, don’t you? How does it feel, to be worshipped by the worshipped? To be treated like this, by a lord? You are….” You are everything. You are all I need. “You are on top of the world, Hajime.”

Yes, Hajime cries, the familiar heat pooling into his stomach as Tooru continues. I am on top of the world. I am power borne of Tooru’s praise. And I am the shrine that your lord kneels before, before you bow to him.

They meet in the middle. Wanton, whole, Hajime crumbles before his lord. He comes toes curling, stirring in the heat of the hot springs. The last of his seed splays across Tooru’s stomach, and the lord shivers, hands knuckle-white around Hajime’s thighs. Embers, burning violently on his skin. 

Tooru’s mouth does not taste like cake and wine anymore. He tastes like him, like Hajime. He tastes like the way he touches, caresses, embraces him. Tooru tastes like incense smoke drifting from shrines.

He does not know how long they stay like that, entangled limbs and obscured in the mist. Moonlight bestowing upon them like an old friend.

“We should head back,” Hajime says, quiet. His body feels heavy.

“Mm,” and Tooru tucks a wet lock of hair from the general’s face. “You look happy, Hajime.”

His face twists, coloring. “Be quiet.”

“You do.” The lord’s eyes smile when he says so. “I took care of you well, did I not?”

“If you insist,” Hajime grumbles, dropping his weight onto the other, “you might as well carry me back.”

“Iwa-chan…”

And when they make it back to the lord’s room, fresh linen robes hanging from their shoulders and peering at the moon from the balcony, Tooru cannot help but whisper about the stories from the past. He hushes the words like a poem, under Hajime’s arms and the waning light. He says, _The moon reminds me of you._

_You remind me of a fool._

But no, Tooru says, serious. That day, when you saved me. When we were boys. The moon, that night, was round and wide. Do you recall? 

Of course, Hajime thinks. I could never forget that night. But I only remember that morning. No moons, but sunrise. The silent world, light brimming the horizon line.

He is twelve years old and the only son of Lord Oikawa has been kidnapped. Taken by midnight thieves, a single scroll left in Tooru’s room demanding ransom two nights ago. The word makes it to the streets overnight, passed from vendor to vendor like sparks ignite torch to torch. The rumors and fears and bewilderness riddle the townspeople that they might as well be caught up in flames.

Dawn breaks. Before the Iwaizumi manor has awakened, Hajime has slipped from the gates and taken his father’s sword. With the youngest horse in the stables in tow, he trudges in the early darkness to the other side of the river.

“I am going,” is what he says to Lord Oikawa and his men when he arrives. They are about to leave when Hajime stops before them, twelve years old and bulky sword dragging from his waist. “I am going to save Tooru, too.”

They first point and laugh and jeer. What could a child do? Run along home, young boy, before your mother finds out. Surely you do not think you can fight with that sword! But he remains, standing, with all the strength a boy could have in front of an army of men.

Lord Oikawa is the only one who does not take part in the jesting. He steps down on his horse, before Hajime with a stern face.

“Hajime-kun,” he says, and his low voice hushes the joshes of the rest of his men in an instant. Even the boy feels the weight of his words, tingling down his spine. 

“Do you know what makes the strongest of samurai?”

The boy pauses. A large build, maybe. Armor and shield, of the best metal. Or is it possessing a calm mind? Great technique would be important, as well. Is that it?

Lord Oikawa shakes his head. “It is not about this—” he nudges towards the hilt of the blade dangling from Hajime’s side— “or this—” and points to his temple— “but this—” and then marks a cross over the left side of his chest. The heart. 

“Loyalty, Hajime-kun. When all else has fallen, loyalty prevails. The heart never truly dies. That is what gives you strength, my boy. And your desire to save a friend is all the strength you need.”

They leave together. From then on, they trek from village to village, rows of horses and heavy men in search of the young lord. In the morning, the sun beats their backs like field workers waddling through rice paddies. By afternoon, their eyes crinkle with dust and the horses begin to tire. The bread Hajime had stolen from the kitchen before leaving the manor tastes like nothing. Resting is a solemn and uncomfortable affair that drags too long for the young boy to stand.

And when evening rolls in, it is pouring rain. A force of infinite drops. They splatter and slush and whisk against the troupe, but Lord Oikawa barrels through the storm without a flinch. Even with the drop in morale and the blackening sky, they keep going.

Mud flings onto Hajime’s cheeks and the horses totter in the wet soil. _Tooru,_ he thinks, trudging through the crooked paths and silent shacks. _Wait for me._

They find Tooru shivering, beaten, crying. Barely alive. Tooru is twelve years old and has almost taken his final breaths.

The thieves were cowards. Upon notice of Lord Oikawa’s search party, they had fled. Tooru was shoved into an empty barrel, and wedged under the floor of the tavern across the old well. Left to never be found. Left to die. Left for Hajime to lose. The evil spirits the tenants had been whispering about in the recent days were in fact the young lord’s muffled cries from underground.

Seeing Tooru, stuck in the small space, is the first time Hajime feels all the fear a twelve-year-old boy has. It is too dark to make out the wet streak on his face: blood or dirt, or both. He is too afraid to know.

“Tooru,” he says, and does not even realize he is shaking. “I am here! Tooru, you are safe now.”

“Iwa… Iwa-chan?” And there are fresh tears running down his face. He whimpers, “Help! It is so dark, Iwa-chan. I’m so scared...”

He is blindfolded. Hajime, with coarse fingers, gently removes the cloth from Tooru’s head. It is slick with blood and the young boy trembles. They hurt him, he thinks. Tooru is hurt. And then, But I saved him. He cannot be hurt anymore.

Tooru’s eyes, wide and swollen. Upon the sight of the other boy, he releases a sob of relief. 

“Iwa-chan! Iwa-chan!” His quivering hands stretching into the light, thin fingers coated with blisters.

“It is alright, now.” The fear is gone. Hajime reaches below him. “I am here, Tooru.” 

_I was lucky,_ is what Hajime says when they ask about the twelve-year-old hero of the Iwaizumi clan, the brave young boy who saved the son of the lord. He does not say that he does not believe it was such a coincidence at all, far from chance, but rather a clear stroke of fate.

They are the lines of characters, as once said, that can never be drawn too far apart.

**Author's Note:**

> — the haiku cited in the beginning is a famous poem written during the era by matsuo basho in 1687  
> — "gojira" the name of iwaizumi's horse is actually the japanese name for godzilla,, hehe  
> — the edo period was actually a peaceful era in which samurais were usually nothing more than a title. so uh iwa has never really been in war or anything 
> 
> this was my first time writing iwaoi, and i'm still fairly new to writing sex, so i hope it turned out alright. oikawa's characterization was a little bit of a struggle since he is imo one of the most complex characters to write. given that this is a pwp, it might not seem that important, but sexual behavior is still behavior yk
> 
> anyway, thank you for reading! i love hearing what you guys think in the comments. if you ever want to reach me and yell about iwaoi my twitter is at [ omlkun](https://twitter.com/OMlKUN) :)


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